


Civil

by morred



Category: Sherlock (TV), Spooks | MI-5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morred/pseuds/morred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Pearce receives a job offer. Again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Civil

'Is Harry about?'  
  
Ruth looks up from her computer, frowning slightly. Lucas echoes the gesture, his lips thinning briefly before smoothing out into his usual half-smile. (It tugs at Ruth's heart, how hard Lucas tries to be friendly, to be nice. If she hadn't been a operative for so long, she'd have been able to say unequivocably that he _was_ friendly and nice, at heart. But it's so hard to be sure anymore.)  
  
'I'll take that as a _no_. Will he be gone long? It's not urgent, but I need to run a few things past him - I think Tariq's turned up something interesting.'  
  
'It's a bit odd, actually.' Ruth pushes a box of biscuits at him across her desk. Lucas folds himself down into a chair and helps himself. 'He didn't say where he was going, or for how long. A call came in and then he left.'  
  
Lucas stretches his legs out in front of him and takes another biscuit, black ink flashing in and out of view on his wrist. Ruth smiles encouragingly. Not that it's her _job_ to make sure field officers eat properly, but Lucas has been looking too razor-sharp recently, all jaw and cheekbones. 'Any idea who called?'  
  
'Highest security clearances I've ever seen, though not any of the usual patterns. The identifiers seem legit. but it I can't access any details on file or the database. Alpha one security.' She smiles. 'Even your new clearance wouldn't get you through that.'  
  
Lucas grimaces. 'Not relations of the X-files brigade from Cardiff, I hope,' he mutters. 'Ros warned me-'  
  
'Not their style at all,' Ruth says, shaking her head. 'Unless they've had an alien injection of subtlety, graceful coding style and the willingness to follow protocol. Which is unlikely.'  
  
'And he didn't want any protection?'  
  
'Harry said that if the meeting posed a threat, there was no sufficient protection we could offer.'  
  
'So he's meeting God? Excellent. Harry getting religion would be just what we need 'round here. Anyway. I suppose we'll see him sooner or later. How's the flatshare?'  
  
  
\---  
  
Harry recognises him as soon as he enters the club. It must be ten years or more, but hardly anything's changed. A little more weight on the paunch, perhaps, and the merest suggsetion of a double chin, but still the tightly furled umbrella leaning against the armchair, still the disconcerting gaze and powerful, elegant hands.  
  
'Sir Harry, thank you for coming.'  
  
'I wasn't aware it was a request.'  
  
The man smiles. 'Of course. But there's no harm in observing the niceties. Do sit down. Whisky, if I remember correctly. Will you be wanting me to open the bottle in front of you?'  
  
Harry's eyebrow raises fractionally. 'I'll take my chances.' He sits, removing his gloves. 'Would it be indiscreet to ask what name you're using?'  
  
A small, unconvincing smile. Harry has a brief, irrational urge to shake the man. 'I always use my own name.' His gaze sweeps the room. 'It would be ridiculous to assume a pseudonym here, after all. It's perfectly secure.'  
  
An assistant arrives smartly with a bottle and two tumblers, then retreats, pulling the door softly shut. The room's empty and quiet but for the crackling of the fire.   
  
Harry, not usually a sentimental man, wonders just how many decisions have been taken in a room like this, with a roaring fire and discreet, dangerous men putting the world to rights over a glass of scotch. Give or take a few changes of fashion and the replacement of telegram-clutching runners with Blackberry-wielding assistants, they could have been in the Victorian age. We British do so enjoy tradition, Harry thinks, with mingled pride and cynicism.  
  
'Such a shame about the late Home Secretary,' his companion murmurs. 'Your good health.'  
  
'And yours, Mr. Holmes.'  
  
'Mycroft, please.'  
  
'Only if you'll dispense with the Sir Harry. Why did you want to see me? Is there any way we can be... of assistance?'  
  
Mycroft Holmes sips delicately and shakes his head. 'Perhaps. Though, admirable as they are, I have no need for the services of your team. I was very impressed by our last meeting, Harry. Very few people refuse what I can offer, and fewer still-'  
  
'-live to tell the tale?' Harry suggests blandly. Mycroft blinks, his brow furrowing slightly, like a purebred Siamese displeased with its food.  
  
'Nothing so crass. You're quite determined not to receive compliments. How strange. I was going to say that most people who continue to work more publically usually do so for personal glory. And until today, I have never repeated my offer.'  
  
Harry takes a sip of his scotch, allowing Mycroft to watch him swallow. A small test of trust. 'I'm honoured, then.'  
  
'You're beginning to be frustrated, Harry. Too many deaths - and please allow me to say how sorry I was to hear about Ms. Myers, she was a uniquely talented operative - so much inefficiency. And tiresome regulations. Never quite fast enough. Always reacting to events.'  
  
Harry smiles. 'I don't believe my worst enemy could accuse me of being overly bothered by tiresome regulations.'  
  
'No. The bomb in Tehran was quite spectacular, for example. And it saved me having to send someone to deal with it all.'  
  
'It was a hasty compromise that resulted in the unforgiveable loss of innocent life.'  
  
'Indeed. It would have been better to prevent the situation ever getting that far. There are opportunities for a man of your talents, Harry. There are quicker, more efficient ways of managing these things. A little more organisation and a little less scrutiny from above and one can prevent the more unpleasant incidents of unnecessary bloodshed. And whilst I have the greatest of respect for your skill with people, you're wasted, frankly, among your team. It must be difficult, having them look up to you, desperate for the smallest scrap of approval.'  
  
'Lucas-' Harry begins, and realises that naming him has only confirmed Mycroft's theory.  
  
'Lucas North. So very _principled_ , isn't he? So thoroughly decent. He'll break your heart, Harry. That is, if you don't break his first.' Mycroft tosses back the last of his scotch. 'There's no need for a decision now. You could of course choose to retire and live in a tiny cottage by the sea and grow roses. Or take a pistol shot to the head.' He hands Harry a card with a number engraved in stark black. 'My private line. Let me know when you've had some time to consider.'  
  
The assistant's back, taking away the glasses. Harry rises and extends a hand. 'I'll be in touch. And whatever my decision, I am aware of the - honour - in being asked.'  
  
'Well, well,' Mycroft replies jovially. 'I always knew you were impressive, Sir Harry. Take care. And I hope to see you again, soon.'  
  
\--  
  
'Harry's back,' Ruth mutters, dropping some files onto Lucas's desk.   
  
'Anything I should know?'  
  
Ruth shrugs. 'He hasn't asked not to be disturbed.'  
  
Lucas thanks her and goes across to Harry's office. He can see him through the glass, sat behind his desk, turning a small white card over and over between his fingers. At Lucas's knock, the card disappears.


End file.
